A poem about burnt toast. |
When you wake up, it's raining hard The sky a bleary gray The mice gnawed on your bedroom door And came inside to stay Your toaster oven burns your slice The coffee scalds your throat The TV's dead, and besides, Your dog ate the remote. The thunder sounds like breaking glass That lands right by your ear The toaster dings, the toast turns black Because you didn't hear. The rain pours on, the house is dim There's nothing here to do You sit in gloom, scowling on A world of grays and blues. But listen now, what's this you hear? A quiet, rumbling sound Of cheery raindrops drumming on The windows, roof, the ground. Crack the window open, now The smell of smoke is gone Replaced with crisp, wet outside scent Of rain and of the lawn. The world is still alive out there Savoring the things That others miss, when stubbornly They focus on the stings. To everything, a good and bad And as the saying goes You sigh too much about the thorns, You miss out on the rose. The rain has stopped, the air so sweet Now gone is your dark frown . . . And when you flip your blackened toast The back is golden-brown. |